


A Cold and Broken Hallelujah

by staralfurr



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dark Seven, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Sorry, My First Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, i'm too obsessed with seven, send help, sort of, this is completely self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8210204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staralfurr/pseuds/staralfurr
Summary: Darkish AU of what happens at the end of Day 7. More or less.Unable to hold back your emotions anymore, you confront Luciel on which perhaps is a bad moment.  You see beyond his icy demeanour, refusing to accept that everything has been a lie—everything he has told you, everything he has done for you—that he doesn’t care about you… and something breaks inside him. Whatever it was that kept his darkest desires restraint. You wanted him to show you how he felt, right? Well, he is going to make sure you understand.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Ooookay... First of all - SORRY FOR THIS PETTY EXCUSE OF SMUT.
> 
> I stayed up ridiculously late writing this piece of fiction. There are probably some mistakes and I'd like to rewrite some parts, but right now I'm too tired to care.
> 
> I don't even know what drove me to write this, lol. It turned out entirely different to what I pictured, to be honest.
> 
> PS. It's the first smut I write in, like, forever. Pls, don't be too harsh on judging my poor writing skills on the matter. <3

It’s late. Too late, probably, but you did not think about consulting the clock when jumping out of the bed after restlessly tossing and turning for hours, fighting off chaotic thoughts. The streets are silent, deserted in the middle of the night, and the apartment is solemnly dark save for the ever-present eerie glow of a computer screen in the living room and the sliver of light that seeps into the hallway from underneath the bathroom’s door along an undulating thread of steam. The pitter-patter of the drops hitting the porcelain plate of the tub mingle with those of swift typing on a keyboard on another part of the house.

The shower is running, and you are inside.

Heaving a deep sigh, you lean your head against the tiles of the wall, dripping with condensation. The contrast between the mild coldness beneath your forehead and the burning stream of hot water running in rivulets down your back feels strangely heavenly. Your fingers graze the metallic knob on the tap, increasing the temperature ever so slightly, and you bit down on your lip to supress a hiss. It hurts but, right now, you just need to feel the pain—to feel _something_. You wouldn’t be able to explain why, to be honest, but you have often resorted to similar remedies when frustration and the stress of life overwhelm you.

And you cannot remember ever feeling as lost and irritated as tonight.

All because of _him_.

Seven Oh Seven—no…, Luciel.

But, who would have thought it would turn out like this, when you finally got to meet him? In the beginning, when that mysterious hacker contacted you to trespass into Rika’s apartment and you had been introduced to the affairs of the RFA, you had been so utterly confused. Everyone who knew you had reprimanded you at some point for being a little tad too trusting, too nice for your own good, so you guess it was only a matter of time that naïveté got you in trouble. Someone was playing with you, controlling you like a puppet, and there was this nice group of people who suddenly suspected you were someone dangerous trying to wrong them in some way or another. Once they understood the situation, one by one they opened to you little by little, helped you organize the party and quickly became something akin to good friends. However, _he_ had often been the one to chase your concerns and anxiety away when all those strange notions about elegant fundraising parties and secretive organizations overwhelmed you. An opportune joke just on the right moment, a funny message in the middle of the afternoon when boredom invaded your senses, a sweet call before heading to bed to make sure you had eaten properly and ask about your day… The sound of his voice alone filled you with warmth. He had made his way into your heart so gently, you had not even noticed your feelings were so stupidly strong until it was too late.

The upsetting events that unfolded earlier in the day are still embedded deep in your mind, and you can’t help but relive them over and over again like a broken record, growing angrier by the second—towards you, towards him, towards the world—and drift into a bottomless ocean of despair.

“… It’s not fair.”

But life seldom is fair,

You are not even sure whether you have whispered those petty words out loud or not, the falling water almost deafening as it keeps falling around you in a furious and burning rain. The intense heat that permeates the air inside the bathroom, paired with your inner turmoil, is starting to make you feel seriously light-headed. You stay under the spray for a couple of minutes more before turning the shower off, leaning your weight against the wall as you reach for a towel to avoid slipping on the water pooled at your feet.

The thick cloud of steam that envelops the room creates a fleeting illusion of isolation, as if that white vaporous wall could separate you from the rest of the world—as if he wasn’t out there, almost within reach, at the very same time you stand naked in every sense of the word thinking about him. Forlornly, you face the mirror that hangs above the sink, messily wiping its misty surface with your hand, and proceed to contemplate your blurry reflection. You recognize the young woman that looks back at you, but the vacant expression on her pleasant face and the unfathomable sadness that swims in the depths of her eyes shatters your heart into a thousand pieces. Bitter tears threaten to spill down your cheeks, but you refuse to cry anymore. Gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles turn white, you stare defiantly at your own reflection and make your decision.

Filled with a conflicting wave of nervousness and determination, you towel dry and untangle your hair, letting the damp waves frame your face, then slip back into the nightie you had shed twenty minutes ago. It’s a pretty shade of pale pink, innocent and comfortable but just the right amount of sexy, with lacy hems and a flattering neckline. It had lied at the bottom of your wardrobe for some time, but for some reason you had taken to use it over the last week. The reason been Seven had been checking on you through the cameras and you wanted to look pretty. Opening the door to allow the steam to dissipate, you notice in passing that, in your stupor, you did not bring fresh panties with you and the old ones are a twisted lump of soggy fabric on a corner. The embarrassing realization makes you blush, but the gown is long enough to cover everything—and you admit the thought sends a shameful shiver of excitement up your spine. It makes you feel… daring. And silly enough to walk out there like this.

You take a deep breath to gather courage before leaving the safety of the bathroom behind. The hardwood floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Apprehensively, you take a quick glance to the ajar door of the dormitory before forcing yourself to face the opposite direction, the living room where a certain red-head has established his camp. The fast and rhythmic noises of deft fingers dancing across a keyboard reach you immediately, the same melody that just yesterday night lulled you to sleep and made you feel safe knowing he was there to protect you now makes you unbelievably sad.

Cautiously, like a reckless deer approaching a hunter, you walk towards the source of the sound. You still want to talk with him, to confront him and make him confess his true feelings, but you are also so scared after seeing his harsh reaction to Yoosung earlier in the chat.  The boy believed Seven to be his closest friend, and yet the hacker had dismissed him so easily, claiming that every relationship he had built over the last years had an expiration date. It could not be true. In a sense, you understood why he would act that way to detach himself from the world and make it easier to let go of certain things, less painful… but you refuse to allow such cowardly behaviour as a legitimate answer. If he will not address his emotions willingly, you will force him to do so, even if it means he will despise you. It’s not healthy, what he is doing to himself. He is not fine. He needs someone beside him whom he can trust. If he doesn’t want you _like that_ , then it’s fine, you will survive (eventually), but you won’t leave his side when he needs it the most and he is his worst enemy. After the sudden appearance of his brother… Everything is spiralling out of control. How could V, how could Rika, or any other of his friends within the organization, ignore the crippling depression slowly building inside him?

He has been running away from his demons for so long, it’s only logical he is terrified of facing them. He has lived among deceiving shadows all his life, hiding his true self behind a mask. Maybe it’s incredibly stupid and meddlesome on your part to interfere in such personal matters, but you need to make him understand that he is not alone.

Your steps pause by the entrance to the living room, arms wrapped around your middle in a nervous gesture, and silently observe his handsome profile, bathed in the dim glow of the computer screen. It resembles a halo, and, from your current position, he truly looks like the fallen angel he has always believed himself to be. Beautiful, tragic, desolate. Those photos he occasionally shared over the phone do him no justice, even if you had thought him as good-looking as charming from the very start, with his wild red locks and those gorgeous amber eyes. The moment he barged into the apartment and rescues you from Saeran, you were left dumbstruck. God, you really have it bad, don’t you?

“(Y/n)?”

He stops typing, furrowing his brow in confusion, but doesn’t dare face you.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I… couldn’t,” you start, unsure of what to say. “There was too much in mi head. Listen—”

Your eyes follow the abrupt movement as he clenches his jaw hard and brings a hand to his forehead, running those long fingers through the mass of curly locks in an almost frustrated impulse. “Didn’t I tell you not to bother me? Dammit…”

Pressing your lips together, you repress your own wave of annoyance by digging your nails into your flesh. Just a second. The brief pang of pain roots you to the earth, instilling a renewed sense of bravery. You won’t allow him to scare you away this time with empty, cynical barks. It’s somewhat ridiculous, you think, how well you can read him—perhaps because you are not so different in the inside. He claims he has no feels for you whatsoever, yet he risked his life to run by your side when the security of the apartment was breached; a secret organization is looking for him this very moment to kill him, yet he refuses to leave you alone in case something happens; he says it’s better if you stay away from him but his eyes follow you around like a protective hawk.

For a moment, he seems confused at seeing you are not leaving nor reacting to his hostility as he expected. Then he abruptly stands up, the desk chair staggering backwards with the violent movement. “What do you want? Leave me alone, (y/n). I mean it. You heard me this morning, I don’t—!”

“N-no.”

You are shaking, be it because of the thrill of defiance or because he looks so imposing like this… with his back to the windows, enclosed in darkness, his tall and lean frame looks daunting. His hands curl into fists, and you notice he himself is trembling with a storm of contained emotion. He not only looks annoyed, or merely angry, but the dark molten gold of his eyes glinting in the dark awakes something uncanny inside you. “What did you say?” his voice is unusually low and husky, and your own breath hitches at the unfamiliar, menacing tone.

“Why are you being like this, Luciel? Just… damn, stop this cruel farce! Stop lying to everyone, for fuck’s sake. You can fool them all, but… not me! Don’t try to push me away, because I cannot possibly be scared of you—not even this darkest side you claim to be your true self.”

A spark of pride surges in your heart when he looks momentarily taken aback, but then a humourless, unsettling chuckle leaves his lips. Like the rumble of thunder, it fills the room. He takes a determined stride towards you, and your body instinctively retreats a step even though you didn’t mean to. Seven shakes his head, another deep chuckle rumbling from his chest. “(Y/n)… You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

You stand your ground, staring at him in mute rebelliousness, which propels him to take another languid stride in your direction. But you don’t step back, this time, ignoring the hysterical beating of your heart against your ribcage that just screams at you to follow your primal instincts and _run from the beast_. Instead, you only feel drawn to him like a moth to a flame. He is so magnificent, you foolishly notice, elegant and deadly like a panther. And the predator has his eyes set on you.

“I just want you to stop hiding from me,” you murmur. “I’m not a child, you don’t have to protect me from any monsters! Not from yourself…”

He sighs.

“You just keep ignoring the warning signs, don’t you? I can’t…  Really, what do you expect me to say, (y/n)?”

“The truth. About _you_ —about _me_.”

“And just what do you believe the truth to be?” he retorts, a sardonic and almost insulting edge to the question. “No… _which truth_ is it you desire to hear? That I’m in love with you or some other childishness? To lie and say that everything will be alright? That there is a chance for this madness, whatever it is, to work out and we will live happily ever after defeating evil? I thought I had made it clear this morning.” Now he is being cruel on purpose, rekindling your previous discussion. The screams, the tears, the door slamming as you sought shelter in the bedroom. “Go to bed, (y/n).”

“NO.”

Something twitches in his icy expression as soon as that insolent word escapes you in a soft but determined whisper, the mask slipping just for a moment to let you see the shaken man underneath. He turns to look down at you from his full height, pinning your body to the spot with just that commanding, menacing glare. His amber eyes have always marvelled you; so eloquent, so bright and deep, so penetrating. But you can’t fully read his intentions at the moment, which makes you even more anxious.

He contemplates you in silence for what feels like an eternity, then takes a deep breath and speaks again. “You  want to know how I truly feel, hm?”

You swallow the knot that has lodged itself in your throat and manage a shy nod.

“You want me to show you,” he insists, taking another step. It almost feels like a warning.

“Yes…” you shudder.

He moves so fast you don’t have time to react, and suddenly he has you pressed against the wall of the living room and is looming above you with yet a darker, predatory expression you had not anticipated. His arms are caging you, unable to escape the smouldering fire in his eyes. Growing shy and flustered at the abrupt turnabout, you exhale a shaky breath and instinctively bring your hands up—either trying to push him away or closer, you cannot tell, but the exact moment your fingers press against the hard planes of his chest over his favourite red shirt, something invisible seems to break between the two of you. A barrier of sorts. His heart is beating like a jungle drum under your quivering fingertips when he brings his face down, burying his nose on the tresses of your still damp hair and breathes in the flowery scent of your shampoo.

He growls your name.

“L-Luciel… _ah_!”

As soon as his name leaves your lips like a prayer, his mouth is on your neck, ghosting over the hollow beneath your ear. He nips on your earlobe, tugging playfully, then allow his lips to barely graze the sensitive skin of your neck in a trail of open-mouthed kisses, almost lovingly, before his teeth close on the junction of your shoulder and your hands fist onto his shirt to withstand the pulse of heat that wrecks through your body, straight to your core down below. He bites hard enough for you to feel the pain and leave a mark, your toes curling and your breath hitching, then soothes the area with languid strokes of his tongue just to repeat the whole process again on the other side, descending to plant a reverent kiss and a playful bite on your collarbone, pausing before reaching the lacy neckline of your nightgown.

“Oh, beautiful, innocent (y/n)…,” he mutters hoarsely against your shoulder.

Standing on your tip-toes, you lick your lips and gaze up at him through half-lidded eyes. Feeling bold and awkwardly shy at the same time, your hands release his shirt to travel up his chest, tracing the strong curve of his biceps to rest on his neck, delicately stroking his defined jawline with the back of your fingers. You go to plant a timid kiss on his lips, but he meets you halfway. His mouth presses against yours with the same voracity with which he attacked your neck mere moments ago, drinking in your surprised gasps and mewls as if they were the richest wine.

You respond clumsily, allowing him to press you back against the wall, jumping slightly at the coldness seeping onto your skin through the thin nightie. Slowing down to a gentle but unrelenting pace, his tongue traces your bottom lip, asking for permission, and you immediately open your mouth without thinking. His hands slid down and grip your thighs a bit too firmly, making you release a startled yelp. The kiss is broken, but he presses his forehead against yours, smouldering orbs of molten gold gazing into your eyes as you feel his fingers knead your flesh. He caresses the soft skin, travelling upwards. He disappears under the hem of your nightgown and you abruptly remember your lack of decency at the same time he does, digging his nails on your plump thighs.

You cry out, a soft breathless mewl, feeling absolutely mortified.

“ _Fuck_ … No panties. You’re so careless, (Y/n). It drives me crazy,” he growls and brushes his lips, still moist and swollen, against yours in a mocking ghost of a kiss. “So intoxicating, so sweet,” his mouth trails downwards, leaving a damp trail on your quivering, feverish skin. “I wanna taste you~”

 “Ah--!”

“Mine to devour.”

His hungry mouth descends on you without warning, closing around the swell of your breast over the flimsy fabric of your gown at the same time his big hands close around the globes of your ass. His mouth is hot, dampening the thin cotton in a matter of seconds, your nipples tingling and hardening in anticipation under his heated breath. Using the firm hold he has on your buttocks to boost you up, he places a strong thigh between yours to keep you just where he wants you—vulnerable and trembling beneath him. He is much taller than you, and the sudden pressure of his knee against your bare groin clouds your thoughts completely. Before you can help it, your lower body buckles against his muscular leg, desperate for something more.

You feel him smirking around your nipple a second before he starts to trace lazy circles around the areola, closing his lips around the taut pebble and sucking. Your fingers weave through his wild red locks, crying out when he abruptly makes the lacy straps aside with the tip of his nose to bare your heaving chest to the cold air and immediately dives to close his heated mouth around the neglected nub. All trace of coherence abandons you as he thoroughly tortures it, alternating between gently flicking it with the tip of his tongue and tugging on it with his teeth almost aggressively, till it matches its swollen and rosy twin and you are left trembling like a leaf in his embrace.

He releases your over-sensitive nipple with an audible _pop_ , planting a sweet kiss on each tit before standing up again to his full height.

“You understand now? Yes—I like you, I want you, I fucking love you. I told you to stay away from me…” He leans closer to your face, brushing his lips against yours in a feathery caress only to suck your abused bottom lip between his teeth, hard, eliciting yet another breathless moan from your throat. “But you don’t listen, don’t you? You just have to tempt me time and time again.” He scoops you up in his arms as if you weighted nothing, guiding your legs to clumsily wrap around his waist. The new position puts you in a very compromised situation, the rock hard length of his arousal nestled between your sensitive folds. He thrust his hips once and you whimper, lost in the sensation as the seam of his jeans drags directly against your clit. “Unless this is what you planned from the very beginning, hm, you naughty girl?”

“I-I… aaah,” you can’t possibly think straight with him moving his hips like that and speaking to you like that. “L-Luciel…”

He whispers a commanding “hold on” and you obey without thinking, clinging onto his broad shoulders. Out of a sudden you are moving, your fuzzy head swimming as one second you are pressed against the wall and the next you are unceremoniously thrown onto the couch with a yelp. The light-coloured leather cushions smell heavily of him, since he has supposedly been sleeping in this very sofa—even though you have actually never seen him away from the computer for more than a few minutes. God. If you weren’t already drunk on him, the musky scent of his sweat alone would have served to undone you, but you cannot possibly become any more aroused without suffering spontaneous combustion.

Or perhaps you can, you decide, squirming under his smouldering gaze. The way he is looking down at you, primal and predatory, rekindle the dark embers fluttering in your belly. He draws a devilish grin and suddenly his big hand circles your ankle, long fingers spread upwards to follow the curves of your soft skin, tracing languid lines that set your blood on fire on their wake. They reach your thigh, groping the supple flesh appraisingly, and suddenly your legs are thrown apart and you suck in a sharp breath as the air of the room hits your moist and throbbing heat. The nightie is uselessly crumpled over your hips, below your breasts, and you surprise yourself by boldly reaching down with shaky fingers to get rid of the annoying garment altogether.

He licks his lips and draws a pleased, lopsided grin that only adds fuel to the flames. You are completely at his mercy, but in that moment you comprehend you do not wish to be anywhere else in the world but there, beneath him.

Still, you are frightened for a million reasons. It has been absurdly long since you were with a man. The first awful experience had led to a great disappointment, the second and last fling only confirming your premature suspicions that sex was completely overrated as far as you were concerned. But he is nothing like the guys you have met before; the things he makes you feel are nothing you have experienced before. The Luciel you love is hot and cold, funny and scarily intelligent, kind, troubled, creative, and so utterly especial. You have never ached for anyone like you ache for him, in so many ways. And it terrifies you.

Look at you—a quivering mess, soaking and panting, and he has barely touched you.

 “So cute~” he coos, using the warm goofy tone you so adore, lowering his smiling face towards your core. He blows air on your heated sex, making you gasp and squirm away from him in sudden embarrassment. It had not crossed your mind before, your insecurity, the curious voice that wonders what he must be thinking of your inexperienced body’s candid reactions. “Huh, where do you think you are going, gorgeous? Don’t hide. You’re so wet for me, (y/n)…”

He catches you before you get too far, dragging you back towards the end of the couch. You go to protest but an illogical stutter is all that leaves you before your voice breaks into a keening whine when his tongue boldly traces the length of your slit to gently flick your clit. The string of moans and sobs you release at the foreign explosion of pleasure only spurs him on. In one movement, he hooks your legs over his shoulders and descends on you like a starving wolf, greedily lapping at your spilling juices and swirling the swollen nub in tight circles until he feels you trembling around him, calling for him in a soft desperate voice, and he stops. You groan in desperation, and he teasingly nips at your inner thigh, waiting for the euphoria to calm down before attacking you again. This time, he uses his thumbs to spread your folds and dips his tongue inside you.

“Luciel!” you gasp, nails digging into the leather cushions. He chuckles, tracing the length of your pussy with the tip of his tongue before attacking your clit again, closing his lips around it and sucking at the same time he introduces a long finger in your wetness. It’s too much. He is too good at this, playing you like an instrument. Soon there are two strong fingers speeding in and out of you, then a third adds a thrilling edge of pain and you start crying with each thrust as he swirls his tongue in tight, tight, tight circles around your precious pearl. “Luciel, I-I’m…”

He sucks on your clit, hard, and you come around his fingers.

“Such a good girl,” he mutters huskily, the term of endearment mingling with the aftershocks of your orgasm and drawing yet another throaty moan from your lips. As you come down from your high, you feel him move above you and hear the rustling of fabric. When you open your eyes again, your vision still slightly hazy, he has disposed of his characteristic glasses and hoodie, only wearing a black pair of boxers that do nothing to conceal his own magnificent arousal. He dips down to claim your abused mouth in a new hungry kiss, teeth biting and tongues entwining like snakes in a ferocious battle for dominance. You can taste yourself on him, mingled with his own musky and delicious taste. It’s the most erotic thing you have ever experienced. Emboldened, your hands fly to anchor on his shoulders, and down his back, holding onto him and dragging your nails along the smooth, hard surface until reaching the edge of his underwear and teasing the sensitive stripe of skin that descends to his groin.

He growls, kissing you almost desperately. He captures your hands with his, pinning your arms to the couch at both sides of your head, and leers down at you as if contemplating the most beautiful thing in the world. Then, his hips thrust against yours, dragging the entire length of his manhood along your soaking folds. Even through the thin barrier of the fabric, the friction is maddening. He presses his clammy forehead against yours, your lips almost touching but out of reach, breathing in each other’s feverish breath, and those smouldering orbs of amber gaze into your own darkened eyes as he moves again. He drinks in every little sound, every little tremor.

He gives no real warning before reaching between your bodies to pull the black boxers out of the way, kissing you hard to swallow your surprised moan when his hot, throbbing shaft slides directly against your pussy. He repeats the movement once, twice, three times, coating himself in your slick arousal to teasingly drag the head against your clit to see you sob and tremble in overstimulation. And suddenly he enters you, big and thick and hot, stretching your inner walls in the most delicious way as he buries himself to the hilt.

You break the kiss to cry softly, holding onto him shoulders like a lifeline.

“Fuck, (y/n)… you’re so tight,” he breaths through gritted teeth, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “So fucking perfect.”

For several moments you stay like that, just revelling on how good he feels inside you. He drawls all the way out before slamming back in, slowly at first, testing different angles to see your reaction, then picking up a pace that has you writhing and moaning his name out like a mantra with each passionate drag of his cock. His fingers dig onto your hips as he also takes control of your body, a sinful symphony of wet slapping noises echoing through the dark apartment in time with your cries. That only encourages him. Faster, harder, deeper, nearly driving you crazy with his unrelenting, animalistic thrusts.

You feel yourself tumbling closer and closer to the precipice, the tight coil of embers inside you tightening and threatening to just explode and consume you in ecstasy. He knows. Sneaking a hand down your belly, he finds the small bundle of nerves on the apex of your folds and rubs purposefully onto it with those lithe skilled fingers. Your back arches like a taut bow, head falling back as you lose all capacity of threading coherent speech, just screaming his name to the night and letting everybody know how much you love him. Tears spill from your eyes as you finally reach the edge and plunge into sweet oblivion. A burst of stars blinds your vision and you almost float, weightless, as you feel yourself close around his manhood, tight and hot, and marvel at the long husky moan he releases in time with his seed, deep inside.

The mixture of your fluids drips down your thigh as he pulls himself out, carefully moving you around in the leather couch. He reaches for the blanket folded on the back of the sofa and spreads it out over you both. Still shaking with the aftershocks of your climax, your heartbeat soars when you feel him press his naked chest against your back and wrap his strong arms around you possessively, intimately, plating a path of butterfly kisses on the lengths of your shoulder before resting his chin there, on the curve of your neck, and heaving a contented sigh.

“Oh, no, you have defeated God Seven~,” he whispers, nuzzling your ear. His embrace draws you even closer to him, skin to skin, and you notice he is trembling almost violently. Vulnerable, warm, and sincere. “Stay with me?” he pleads.

"Always..."

This is where you belong, in each other's arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh, I seriously HATE that abrupt end (among other things). Sorry again. I'll write a better one when I return to "proper human being" from my current condition of "caffeinated zombie".  
> Well, at least that was fun to write. And very embarrasing.


End file.
